“What if not being real means you never had anything worth keeping?”
The question is weighted with everything we’re not saying.
I should tell her I’m V. Langley. That I’ve been writing her letters for months, falling in love with her honesty while hiding behind my own walls.
That every word she just said about my books is true, and I’m trying to fix it, and she’s the reason I’m trying.
But the words stick in my throat, blocked by years of hiding and fear and the certainty that honesty will cost me everything I can’t afford to lose.
“I should go,” I say instead, because I’m a coward.
“You should sign the papers first.”
Right. Business. The thing I’m supposedly here for.
I watch as Jessica scrawls her signature on the appropriate lines, her handwriting the same careful script I’ve seen on her recommendation cards. The same script Between the Lines uses in her letters.
That’s been slowly breaking my heart for six months.
“Thank you,” I say, taking the folder back.
“Don’t thank me for signing away my livelihood.”
“That’s not what—” I stop. Start again. “Jessica, I don’t want you to lose your shop.”
“Then why did you give me an ultimatum I can’t meet?”
Because I’m a scared idiot. Grayson was right in saying I engineered this entire situation just to have an excuse to see her regularly while the board pressures me to fix the property situation.
I don’t know how to admit I’m in love with her without revealing every secret I’ve been hiding.
“It’s complicated,” I say again, and I hate myself for it.
“Everything with you is,” she responds, and this time it sounds sad instead of angry. “You know, for a man who reads poetry, you’re remarkably bad at saying what you actually mean.”
I turn to leave, and Austen chooses that exact moment to launch his attack.
The cat jumps from the counter to a nearby bookshelf, miscalculates spectacularly, overcorrects, and launches himself directly at my shoulder like a furry missile with claws and murderous intent.
I yelp—actually yelp, like a grown man being murdered by a house cat, which is essentially what’s happening—and stumble backward into a spinning display of paperbacks.
The display does not survive the impact.
Neither does my dignity.
Books cascade everywhere. The display spins, wobbles, and crashes to the floor with a sound like the universe laughing at my suffering. I try to catch the falling books while maintaining some shred of professional composure and fail spectacularly at both objectives.
Austen clings to my shoulder like a furry, judgmental backpack, digging his claws through my very expensive suit jacket. Through my shirt. Into my actual flesh.
“Ow—stop—your cat is—Ow.”
“Austen!” Jessica rushes over, but she’s laughing, the sound bright and real and completely worth the humiliation and probable need for a tetanus shot.
“Your cat is trying to murder me.”
“He’s very protective.” She gently extracts Austen from my shoulder, cradling him like he’s an innocent victim instead of a furry terrorist. “Also, you kind of deserved it.”
“I’m not sure assault by cat is a fair response to real estate negotiations.”
